Chapter III: Part II: Moussorgsky as Operatic Composer

I.

There is no ground for supposing that Moussorgsky’s lively humanitarian instincts had been completely quiescent before they were aroused by the spread of socialistic propaganda, consequent on the great reformative act of Alexander (the emancipation of serfs) and the appearance of Chernishevsky’s thought-provoking “What is to be done?”

In his biography, Stassof is able to dispel such an illusion. Therein he quotes a letter, written him by Moussorgsky’s brother Filaret, to the effect that the composer, long before reaching manhood, had manifested feelings of complete sympathy with the humble serf, considering the Russian peasant as the “real man” (_nastoyarshchy chelovek_).

When the moment came for Russian society as a whole so to regard the peasantry, Moussorgsky did not hold himself aloof, but joined in the movement of “simplification,” so enthusiastically set on foot by young Russia. Thus in 1863 we find him associated with the “Commune,” of which he remained for three years a member.

Moussorgsky plainly belonged, then, to the “progressives” of his own generation, in so far as concerns ethics. His music proclaims that as a creative artist he was far in advance of that generation.

II.

The choice of literary material as subject-matter for music-drama was for such a man no vexed problem. He wished to glorify the Russian people.

Glinka had already made a beginning in this respect with his national opera “A Life for the Tsar,” in which his hero was not the monarch, but the loyal peasant who died for him. Before Wagner had made his suggestion that the operatic art should have no dealings with history, because history concerned itself mainly with the movements of monarchs and rulers, Glinka had already given an effective reply. What Moussorgsky did was not merely to adopt the Glinkist tradition, but to improve on it.

Already in his early operatic essay, based on Flaubert’s “Salammbô,” he had given the chorus precedence of the _prima donna_.

In “Boris Godounof” and in “Khovanshchina” he boldly confers upon the chorus a protagonistic responsibility. At one stroke he dismisses the Wagnerian objection to historical material, and repudiates the proposed alternative, the legendary subject. He has no use for symbolism, and declines to resort to the allegorical puppet as a mouthpiece. He was a realist who knew that the People had something to say, and he let them speak for themselves. While as a man he had strong sympathies with the nationalistic ideal of Glinka, he had as a composer very little, if anything, in common with the “father of Russian Opera;” it is from Dargomijsky that Moussorgsky the artist has derived. The “New Russian School,” inaugurated towards the end of the fifties by Balakiref and Cui, had all but pledged itself to an observance of the principles of operatic and vocal art drawn up under Dargomijsky’s guidance, and afterwards had every reason to be thankful that the pledge had never been signed and sealed. Among them Moussorgsky alone was a life-long apostle of the composer of “The Stone Guest.” Borodin, Cui, and Rimsky-Korsakof felt that they could do no less than make experimental essays in Dargomijskian opera, and if they were not all three obliged, as was Borodin, to confess that the rigid abstention from all the old operatic practices was foreign to their nature, they did not at any rate adhere very faithfully to the Dargomijskian decree.

With Moussorgsky it was quite otherwise. His attitude towards music as an art was one of an almost transcendent seriousness. Art was to be the means of throwing a high light upon the dignity of Life; Art itself must therefore be dignified. “Life in all its aspects, ... the truth whether palatable or no,” is the burden of his refrain in a passionate letter to Stassof, written in August, 1875.

With such a man concessions to a prevailing taste were not to be thought of. Inspired by the precept of Dargomijsky, with whom he had been on intimate terms, he set himself to build up a musico-dramatic structure that could never become old-fashioned. Opera was no longer to be an entertainment devised for the public of one particular generation; it was to be an art, to have a purpose.

“SALAMMBÔ”

III.

Moussorgsky’s first serious attempt at Opera was the setting of Flaubert’s “Salammbô,” already referred to. This was begun in 1863. As has been said, the work appears to have been designed to give to the collective human interest that prominence usually accorded the individual. But this was not the only feature of the work testifying to Moussorgsky’s respect for the operatic form. From Stassof we learn that the composer paid very close attention to the question of scenic detail, and that he made a diligent study of Flaubert’s novel with a view to reproducing in his libretto everything likely to contribute to a faithful dramatic rendering of the original. The design and colour of costumes, lighting effects, and even the gestures and demeanour of the characters were carefully studied by the composer.

“Salammbô” was abandoned when still quite incomplete. Its music has not, however, been lost to the world. Most of the fragments composed were afterwards embodied with necessary modifications in later works; the rest has been revised and edited by V. G. Karatigin. “For the most part,” says Stassof, “this material has gained by its translation,” and only once, according to this critic, has the adaptation been disadvantageous. The theme of the arioso in the third act of “Boris Godounof” is less appropriate in its ultimate environment than in the original conception. The libretto of “Salammbô” was written by Moussorgsky, but he interpolated some verses borrowed from the unfortunate poet Polejaef, and from Heine.

“THE MATCHMAKER”

IV.

By the time that Moussorgsky entered upon his second dramatic essay he had fallen completely under the influence of Dargomijsky, hence his resolve to take a bold step towards a legitimate union of text and music.

“The Matchmaker” is directly inspired by Dargomijsky’s “The Stone Guest.” The composer of the last-named work had achieved what had never hitherto been attempted. He had taken the text of Pushkin’s dramatic version of “Don Juan,” and had set it from beginning to end without making a single alteration, ignoring, at the same time, every operatic convention. There are no separate vocal numbers beyond Laura’s Song, an interpolation sanctioned, or rather invited, by the poet’s stage-direction: “She sings.” There is no chorus, for the equally good reason that Pushkin’s work contains no “crowd.” With the exception of this one lapse into pure melody, the score of “The Stone Guest” is written in the recitative, which Dargomijsky considered to be the only legitimate musical accompaniment of a dramatic text.

In his setting of Gogol’s “The Matchmaker,” Moussorgsky takes a still more daring step, for this comedy of middle-class Russian society is written in colloquial prose. Far from being daunted, the composer has actually reflected the intonation, demeanour, and the gestures of each character in his music with a thoroughness that, while complete, has no appearance of meticulousness.

The scheme of Gogol’s work has been outlined by a writer who was both a brilliant musical critic, and an authority on Russian matters when authorities were few. In “The Russians at Home,” the late Mr. Sutherland Edwards gave the following synopsis of “The Matchmaker”: “In Gogol’s ‘Matchmaker’ we have a fine study of the bachelor as character.... The main idea of the plot--and a highly philosophical one it is--is this: that a bachelor of a certain age must necessarily dread to alter his mode of life to suit that of another person. The chief character of the comedy, who is considered a good match, after considering the qualifications of a number of marriageable young ladies who are all anxious to secure him, selects one; but no sooner has he given his word than he repents. He is afraid of the total change that must take place in his habits after he is married. It is not a love match, for he is a middle-aged man and something more. He reflects, but the bride is coming downstairs in her wedding costume and there is no time for consideration. The handle of the door moves, and it appears impossible to escape; but the window is open. He leaps into the street and is saved. You hear him calling out to a droshky driver, ‘Isvostchik! Isvostchik!’ He has disappeared for ever, and the curtain falls.”

This is a somewhat over-brief summary of the action, since it makes no reference to the exceedingly funny scene in which the bachelor finds himself in competition with three other characters who, as typical suitors of the class and period under caricature, are the victims of Gogol’s satire. But as Moussorgsky’s work goes no further than the first scene, the rest may well on the present occasion be neglected. In this one scene there appear but four of the eleven characters: Podkolyossin, the bachelor; Kochkaryof, his friend; Stepan, his servant; and Thyokla, the marriage-broker.

V.

The score of “The Matchmaker” reveals that Moussorgsky was fully qualified to accomplish with success the extraordinary task he had set himself. “What is not the notation of the spoken word,” says Mr. Calvocoressi in his monograph, “is the notation of pantomime.”[8] There are, besides, examples of descriptive music in other directions than these; such, for instance, as the quick sweep which describes the silk dress of the chosen lady as “rustling as though a Princess were passing”; and when the friend Kochkaryof, in reciting to the reluctant Podkolyossin the advantages of married life, predicts a family of “not merely two or three, but six at least,” there is a group of two semiquavers, followed by another of three, and, immediately after, a group of six for the definite number, and a scale of 6|4 chords for the problematic brood. It should be borne in mind that there is nothing in the least gauche about such apparently ingenuous specimens of descriptive music. They may not be quite in tune with our notion of humour to-day, but until some living master can be persuaded to try his hand at the continuously descriptive, we may congratulate ourselves on the preservation of Moussorgsky’s example.

Not less remarkable are the places in which changes of emotion and mood are noted. After the breaking of a mirror, when Kochkaryof, the cause of the mishap, consoles Podkolyossin with the promise of a new one, the accompanying music is so perfectly appropriate to the emotional situation that the bar prior to the spoken sentence veritably anticipates for the listener its sense. Again, when at the moment already described, in which occurs the friend’s detailed picture of what married life may bring, Moussorgsky resolves a high-pitched dissonance by dropping suddenly into a low, common chord, minus its third, he shows us Podkolyossin’s general state of collapse and his frozen stare as plainly as if we were watching the action instead of merely listening to the music.

The score, in fact, reveals how determined Moussorgsky was to observe the letter as well as the spirit of the Dargomijskian method, a method he made his very own.

What the composer thought of this work may be gathered from the letter he wrote to his friend Stassof, in 1873, after the completion of “Boris.” “How can I best thank you?” he asks. “I have found an answer at once. By making a gift of my very self.... Pray accept my recent work on Gogol’s ‘Matchmaker’; examine these attempts at musical discourse, compare them with ‘Boris.’... You will see that what I now give you is without question myself.... You know how dear to me is my ‘Matchmaker.’ And to tell the truth it was suggested to me (in fun) by Dargomijsky, and (in earnest) by Cui.” In the printed score is the formal dedication, which included the gift of all rights in the work to Stassof. This was written, says Moussorgsky, “with a quill pen in Stassof’s flat ... in the presence of a considerable gathering.”[9]

In Stassof’s own opinion there was a future for this type of opera. It is many years since that view was expressed. It almost seems now as though there were no future for any other kind.

“SOROCHINSK FAIR”

VI.

It is impossible to treat Moussorgsky’s other unfinished opera, “Sorochinsk Fair,” as a serious dramatic work, since he himself did not. There is not surviving a sufficiency of connected material for it ever to assume companionship with Rimsky-Korsakof’s “A Night in May,” in company with which story the original appears in Gogol’s collection of “Tales of a Farm Near Dikanka.” The preserved fragments, one of them being the justly popular “Gopak,” have been edited by Lyadof and Karatigin. In the performance of these given at the Moscow Free Art Theatre in the winter of 1913, they were strung together by a spoken dialogue. The vocal music, which is only in part declamatory, can hardly be considered as representing the composer’s musico-dramatic manner, but it includes some very charming melody, some of it being quite in the folk-style. A certain part of the original music has had a curious history. Written in the first instance for “Salammbô,” it served temporarily as a section of the work now familiar as “A Night on the Bare Mountain,” was also used in the composer’s contribution to the joint “Mlada” (Gedeonof’s project), and was again made use of as an Intermezzo in this unfinished opera.

Musically considered, “Sorochinsk Fair,” while far from fully representing its composer, bears undoubted evidences of his advanced thought. Certain rhythmic and harmonic touches, plainly intended to reflect a nice shade of meaning in the text, recall Dargomijsky’s maxim, “The sound must represent the word,” and are an assurance that Moussorgsky always had this in mind.

“BORIS GODOUNOF”

VII.

By means of his music-drama “Boris Godounof,” Moussorgsky first became known to the world as a creative artist who, though hitherto neglected, would have to be reckoned among the great innovators. For the student of Russian music the work possesses several independent points of interest. In the first place, it is clearly the offspring of Glinka’s initial dramatic venture, “A Life for the Tsar.” It is at the same time far in advance of its forerunner in its dramatic as well as in its musical conception. It referred, as did Glinka’s opera, to one of the most remarkable epochs in the history of Russia. But while Glinka puts before his spectators a plot with a heroic action as its salient, Moussorgsky occupies himself with the revelation of the consequences of a dastardly act. Yet the latter, despite his preoccupation with mental movement and his neglect of physical, does not adopt the procedure of the psychologist-musician. We do not find him indulging in a lengthy exegesis of his own soul-states in presence of the stage tragedy he depicts. He tells a simple though rather horrible tale. His narrative does not bear the impress of the narrator’s temperament. “Boris Godounof” is neither the cold compilation of the detached historian, nor the revelation of the mental agony of a greatly interested and concerned onlooker. A spectator of Moussorgsky’s version of the tragedy is not first concerned with what he himself is thinking about the dramatic occurrences, nor does he speculate upon the attitude of the composer towards all this murder, strife, and intrigue. His mind is chiefly occupied in observing their effect upon the people participating in the drama. He finds himself glancing at the crowd, and wondering what will be their demeanour in the face of the next development. And Moussorgsky’s crowd never fails to respond.

Operatic nationalism had begun with a Russian text; Glinka had endowed it with a native musical manner. Moussorgsky made it an absolute expression of nationalism.

VIII.

The chapter of Russian history chosen by Moussorgsky as the material of his drama is one which is to be considered as a turning-point in the history of the Russian Empire. It refers to the interim between two great dynasties.

Looking into the future, Ivan the Terrible had perceived that his weak-minded son Feodor, whom he regarded as “more like a sacristan than the son of a Tsar,” was quite unfit to control the destinies of a nation. Not long after his father’s death Feodor himself became conscious of his incapacity. Accordingly he appointed Boris Godounof, whose marriage into the royal family had been a step prompted by ambition, as Regent. Godounof was not slow to discern the potentialities of his new position. He saw that Feodor’s younger brother Dmitri might one day stand between himself and the throne. This youth lived on a property at Ouglich, willed to him by his father. Godounof saw to it that his interests were not neglected in this quarter, and among Dmitri’s entourage there were several tools of the Regent. Their observations led Boris to assume that if this boy lived there would be an end to all his ambitions. Godounof laid his plans accordingly. On a May afternoon in 1591 young Dmitri was playing in the courtyard of his palace. He was suddenly missed. The stories of his assassination vary, but the one usually accepted relates that Dmitri’s corpse was discovered in the church. Seven years later Feodor breathed his last, supported in the arms of his wife and his Regent, Boris, who had long since attained to something like absolute power, now saw that the throne could easily be his. “The Russian annalists,” says Prosper Mérimée,[10] “who were no doubt ignorant of the Scottish legends, represent Boris as a new Macbeth driven to the crime by the prophecies of his soothsayers.” Having told him that he would one day reign, they paused in terror at what they read in his future. He would reign, they added timorously, but only for seven years. “What matter if it be but seven days,” cried Boris, “so long as I reign.”

As occupant of the throne, the consequences of his crime never ceased to pursue him. A Pretender arose who claimed to be Ivan’s son Dmitri. He had a large following, and was seized upon by the Poles as a convenient instrument in the promotion of their revolt against Muscovy. With the trouble at its height, Boris found himself on the horns of a ghastly dilemma. He wished his son to reign after him. If Dmitri was really alive his own son would never be Tsar. If his terrible design of years ago had been properly carried out, as he had always supposed, he must himself be a murderer, and with a conscience grown livelier that thought was unbearable.

IX.

Moussorgsky’s music-drama does not show us the assassination. We do not see Dmitri’s bloodstained corpse. But we get more than a glimpse of Boris’s remorse-stricken soul, and we are allowed to obtain a fairly broad survey of the national mind.

That this was intended to be the main business of Moussorgsky’s “National Music-Drama” is plainly shown by the arrangement of his dramatic material. Before the “plot” is entered upon there are two scenes constituting a prologue. By this means the ostensible as well as the real position as between monarch and people is revealed. Boris, invited to place himself on the throne, guilefully dissembles and demurs. His subjects, coerced at the instigation of Boris’s own minions, simulate an anxiety lest the chosen Tsar’s reluctance be maintained. A significant episode is the entrance of the mendicant pilgrims (_Kalieki perekhojie_), whose sacred hymn is received with an enthusiasm that is real. The people have been allowed to express themselves. In the second scene news of Boris’s acquiescence arrives. It is followed at a short interval by the Tsar himself, who, passing across the Red Square to the Kremlin, is greeted by the crowd assembled for his coronation. So far the text is of Moussorgsky’s making. When proceeding to the discussion of the main plot, he is able to draw upon Pushkin’s original literary substance.

The first scene of Act I is laid in the cell of the monk Pimen, who is engaged upon the concluding pages of a chronicle of Russian history. From him the young novice Grigory Otrepief learns the details of Dmitri’s assassination. His discovery that the murdered Tsarevich would have been his own age makes him at once the victim and the hero of his imagination. He becomes the self-appointed avenger of the murdered Dmitri.

Scene II shows him a fugitive defying ecclesiastical authority. He has renounced the cloister and has taken his first step towards the throne. He is resting at an inn situated on the Lithuanian frontier. At the moment of his betrayal by two bibulous monks, he escapes through the window and continues his journey towards Poland.

The royal palace is the scene of the second act, which is the joint work of Pushkin and Moussorgsky. The presence of the Tsar’s son Feodor and his daughter Xenia is made a vehicle for the interpolation of appropriate material of an episodic kind. The actual drama is carried a step further by the Tsar’s reference to a map of Russia, which is being examined by his heir. “All this territory,” explains Boris to his son, “will one day be yours.” The atmosphere of domesticity is dispelled by the entrance of the boyard Shouisky, who brings news of serious trouble on the Polish frontier. It has been declared that the corpse found at Ouglich was not that of Dmitri Ivanovich; and that he, on the contrary, is a living and energetic claimant of the crown. Boris, uneasy, orders an immediate inquiry into the conduct of the assassination. Shouisky, as though to reassure him, describes the appearance of the child’s corpse, which he claims to have seen. On his withdrawal Boris is seized with terror. The rack upon which his mind has for years been tortured has been given a sharp turn by Shouisky’s recital, and the strain produces a nerve-crisis. Boris, through a hallucination, has a vision of the blood-stained corpse. An awful terror seizes him.

X.

The next act is one which might well have been omitted from the scheme, and in performance often is. It was inserted, it will be remembered, to make good the deficiency of feminine interest. Dramatically it has a sort of relation to the whole, since it is complementary to the information brought by Shouisky and shows what is happening in Poland. Musically it is not uninteresting, but, considered as a part of the whole music-drama, it is as much a blemish as is Glinka’s Polish Act in “A Life for the Tsar.” Glinka’s weakness of invention is shared by Moussorgsky. Both of them failed in the musical portrayal of Poland, because neither was able to describe the Polish character in musical terms other than those of the popular national rhythms.

The act has as definite a foundation in history as any other section of the drama, but it is negligible to the working out of this particular plot. Otrepief has arrived in Poland and has found a supporter. He has also found a maiden whose attachment to him is not altogether dictated by her heart. Her aim is to share the throne of Russia, and she is striving to strengthen his ambitious hopes, knowing that upon them depends her chance of realizing her own. Both Marina Mnichek and her religious director, Rangoni, the Jesuit, are well known to history. As witnesses of their scheming, we feel that this act is at least a little helpful to our understanding of the drama. But the music, in its attempts to procure local colour, is far from convincing.

The fourth act is in two scenes. In the first the arrival of the Pretender at the forest of Kromy, _en route_ for Moscow, is the only feature of dramatic value. But Moussorgsky’s musical treatment of the behaviour of the utterly irresponsible crowd of peasants, who welcome the Pretender’s passage rather as a pretext for revolt than as any real blessing, is a page which in itself creates an epoch in the history of Opera. The “pure fool” left behind on the stage to wring his hands in anguish at the darkness that is falling upon Russia is the creation of Pushkin. It is a national type which lives again in Dostoievsky’s “Idiot.”

The final scene is apparently a continuation of that in which we left Boris vainly trying to shut out the awful vision of the murdered Prince. The Tsar’s Council, confident that the revolt of which Shouisky has apprised them will be quickly suppressed, are discussing the form of punishment to be meted out to the Pretender. Suddenly the terror-stricken figure of the Tsar bursts into the hall. With difficulty they calm him. Shouisky enters, and announces that he has found one who can give a faithful account of the Ouglich crime, and thus dispose of the Pretender’s claim. Pimen is ushered in. He tells of an old shepherd, blind from birth, who heard in a dream a command that he should pray at the tomb of Dmitri, now an angel, and whose faith was duly rewarded with the gift of sight. Boris hearing that his guilt is established, falls into a worse frenzy. He feels that his end is near. Young Feodor is sent for, and with his last breath the Tsar proclaims him his heir and successor.

XI.

The choice of “Boris Godounof” as subject would appear, as has been observed, to have been directly inspired by Glinka’s use of historical material in “A Life for the Tsar.” The music, however, is that of a composer who, after earnestly conferring with Dargomijsky, found little difficulty in seeing eye to eye with him in regard to the main principles of the “New Russian School.”

The setting of “Boris Godounof,” considered in comparison with all other operatic music, stands right apart from it. It is the artistic product of a great national crisis. One can easily imagine that a man so passionately in earnest as Moussorgsky would be immensely inspired by the so-called “nihilist” movement, and that nothing would please him more than to write an opera that would reflect the spirit of that movement.

It was the endeavour of the young intellectual of that time to be natural. There was a crusade against “pose,” and not merely deliberate but unconscious pose. One could dismiss the score of “Boris” with a compliment well worth the paying by declaring it an opera in which every bar of music is natural. Listening to the work, one could imagine Moussorgsky never to have heard an opera, to be entirely ignorant of the traditions of this form of art. With the exception of the Polish Act, in which he seems to betray that for him, as for Glinka, the vocabulary of musical terms in which the Polish character could be rendered stopped short at the Polacca and Mazurka rhythms, the composer has given us music that is appropriate, sincere, and dignified, never departing from beauty and never approaching anything in the nature of conventional pattern.

When it has been said that the music is consistently natural, it seems hardly necessary to mention that there are none of the traditional operatic subdivisions or self-contained numbers, that there are no formal overtures or _entr’actes_. The Prelude is of sufficient length to establish the requisite atmosphere. That done, the curtain rises. When it falls, the music, being there for a purely dramatic purpose, ceases. When, as in the case of Grigory’s escape from the Inn, there is a likelihood that the scene will continue in the imagination of the spectator for a moment or two after the action is shut out from view, the music comes to his assistance, but it has a curtain of its own, and this too is quickly drawn.

XII.

By Moussorgsky the leading-motive device is very happily used. His leading-motives are flashes of thought, mere reminiscences. There are the usual labels for characters and sentiments, but they are used in moderation. There is nothing resembling the Wagnerian philosophical disquisitions upon the attributes of a character on its every appearance, or upon the ethics of an emotion whenever suggested. Moussorgsky’s themes are used chiefly as links connecting the series of tableaux of which the drama is made up, and not as labels inseparable from the persons to whom they have been attached. The most prominent motive--that associated with the idea of the royal succession, heard in the dialogue between Pimen and Grigory when the latter asks what age the murdered Prince would have been; in the Introduction to the Inn scene heralding the presence of the novice-Pretender; in Shouisky’s account of the Ouglich crime and other places--does not at all times accompany reference to the subject it represents. Although it appears occasionally in the Polish scenes, there are places in which it might have been used quite effectively but in which it is neglected. Other themes recurring with more or less frequency and subtlety are the People’s motive, which is heard in an altered shape in the Forest scene when the crowd is baiting a captured noble; the short phrase which seems to refer to Russia’s past and which appears at intervals during the scene in the old monk’s cell, returning with Pimen’s narrative in the last act; and those which apparently represent the sentiments and attributes of the Tsar, his paternal solicitude and his insatiable ambition. That the full power of the leading-motive device was recognized by the composer is plain from the use of one of the Polish themes, when in the Forest scene the Pretender speaks of his destination. Here the main motive occurring under the words: “To our holy land of Russia ... let us seek the Kremlin” is heard in conjunction with a fragment of the Polacca. These two are heard together also in the Polish act.

The avoidance of formalism that characterizes the use of the leading-motive is in accord with the note of the whole work, simplicity. The moments of mental stress, the dramatic crises, are not with Moussorgsky the signal for a marshalling of “every modern luxury,” as Glinka styled the instrumental array. In this respect we find economy where extravagance usually prevails. Even in the scene of the hallucination, the composer depends mainly upon his “strings” for the description of Boris’s anguish. With him the repeated reference to an emotion does not involve an ever-increasing volume of tone for the description of the growing complexity in the psychological situation. Thus Boris’s final fit of terror is accompanied by music infinitely simpler than that heard when first allusion is made to the murdered heir.

The vocal line of the opera partakes for the most part of the nature of melodic recitative, but its purely lyrical moments are by no means sparse. As they occur in places where reference to folk-lore and song is made, they constitute no exception to the general appropriateness. There are times when Moussorgsky feels called upon to bring the sound into very close accord with the general sense; it is then that the composer resorts, as in the story of the parakeet, told by the excited young Tsarevich Feodor, to a method used in some of his songs. This consists of a faithful yet musical reflection of the rise and fall of the speaking voice. Set up as an ideal by Dargomijsky, it was attained by his disciple.

Moussorgsky was not deliberately unconventional as an operatic composer. National music-drama, if it is to exert the powerful influence without which it is not national, must be natural. Moussorgsky adopted the means best suited for the maintenance of that naturalness which alone could achieve what he has achieved. The music follows the drift of the text, serving it faithfully and never seeking to assert its claim to beauty as music. The sound, as M. Marnold so happily expresses it, is never allowed to become egotistical.[11] But, in accordance with the canons of the “New Russian School” it never ceases to be music.

“KHOVANSHCHINA”

XIII.

It was a Russian who said that religion was given by Providence as a stick which, in default of intellectual qualities, might be used as a moral support, and that with this stick Russians had chosen to belabour each other. The human interference which brought about the misuse of the stick was that of Nikon the Patriarch, who in 1655 undertook a revision of the Bible. Some of the corrections gave offence to the people, who preferred to adhere to traditional methods of worship. In consequence of this the nation was split into two main religious bodies: the Old Believers and the Orthodox, or followers of the authoritative dispensation. The dissenting body subsequently became subdivided into a great number of “jarring sects.”

It is with this schism that Moussorgsky’s second historical opera concerns itself. The figure-heads of the opposing factions, for the purposes of the opera, are Prince Ivan Khovansky, an adherent of the old régime, and Prince Galitsin, whose sympathies and interests are served by the introduction of Western enlightenment. It is understood that Dositheus, who in the opera is the spiritual leader of the Old Believers, is a portrait of another Prince. Stassof, who was responsible for the suggestion that this “antagonism between old and young Russia” would be good material for an opera, may well have feared, as in a letter to Moussorgsky he confesses he did, that instead of being a “People’s Music-Drama” it would be a Princes’.

The love-interest in “Khovanshchina” was not, as it had been in “Boris Godounof,” an afterthought. There are three prominent feminine characters: the Old Believer, Martha, described by Stassof as in some ways resembling Potiphar’s wife; Susan, a rigid fanatic, priding herself overmuch on her virtue; and Emma, a young Lutheran by whom Khovansky’s son Andrew has been attracted. In the original plan there were to have been included the figure of the Empress-Regent Sophia, of whom Galitsin is supposed to have been the lover, together with her young charge, afterwards to become Peter the Great. Owing to Moussorgsky’s decline in health, and the consequent fear that his opera might never be finished, he was obliged to reduce its scheme, and the royal personages disappeared.

The historical events underlying the dramatic material of “Khovanshchina” are as follows: Feodor Alexeyevich, eldest grandson of the first Romanof, had died without issue and was succeeded by Peter, the third brother, Ivan, being of weak intellect. As Peter was only ten years old Sophia, their half-sister, was appointed Regent. Anticipating the unwelcome reforms for which Peter afterwards became famous, Sophia did her best to place Ivan on the throne, and to this end instigated a revolt of the Streltsy--a regiment of Guards most of whom were Old Believers. Their leader, Prince Khovansky, and his son Andrew were the moving spirits in the rebellion, and Peter, who subsequently succeeded in quelling it, gave to the series of risings the appellation of “Khovanshchina.” The culminating event was the collective suicide of a large body of Old Believers who refused to submit to the heretical innovations of one whom they believed to be anti-Christ.

XIV.

Moussorgsky’s libretto is a fairly faithful rendering of the historical records, but its hurried abridgement naturally caused a sacrifice of many interesting details. The opera, in its published form, begins with a scene in the Red Square at Moscow. It is early morning. A public letter-writer enters the Square and sets up his booth, and a number of Streltsy who have been bivouacking in the Square after a riot on the previous evening betake themselves to their duties. Presently the boyard Shaklovity enters, and calls upon the scrivener to write down an impeachment of the Khovanskys, father and son. Immediately on his departure the pompous Prince Khovansky arrives with his following of Streltsy and Old Believers. Making the most of his position as head of the Streltsy, he encourages the people to rise against the authority of Peter. The crowd, impressed by his arrogance, sing a hymn in his honour. As the procession is moving off a young woman rushes upon the scene, closely followed by Khovansky’s son. It is Emma the Lutheran, who is being importuned, to her evident distress, by Prince Andrew. The altercation is interrupted by the arrival of Martha, whom Andrew has discarded. Andrew, furious at her intervention, attempts to stab her, but the Old Believer, gaining possession of his knife, delivers a mystical oration in which she foretells the young Prince’s approaching doom. The elder Khovansky now returns and, perceiving that the object of his son’s attentions is a young woman whom he himself admires, gives orders for her arrest. Andrew vows that she shall not be taken alive. She is saved by the timely entrance of the venerable Dositheus. He upbraids Andrew, orders Martha to protect Emma under her own roof, and kneels in prayer. The crowd proceeds to the Kremlin for worship, and the curtain falls on the solitary figure of Dositheus.

The second act takes place in the palace of the Galitsins. The rising curtain discloses the Prince disdainfully perusing a love-letter from the Empress-Regent. To him enters Martha, whom he has summoned, believing in her powers of clairvoyance, to read his future. She calls for a basin of water, cloaks herself in a long black garment, and proceeds to divine his early ruin. Beside himself with rage, Galitsin calls for his servants and orders them to waylay the woman on her way home, and to drown her in the marshes.

Galitsin, pondering over Martha’s terrifying prediction, is now visited by his enemy Khovansky. Between them there are personal and political recriminations, which terminate on the entrance of Dositheus, who pacifies them. The calm is but temporary. Martha returns to announce that an attempt has been made on her life, and is followed by Shaklovity, who presents himself as the envoy of the Regent and warns Khovansky that the Tsar has discovered his plot.

The Streltsian quarter of Moscow is the scene of the third act. Martha, withdrawing herself from a procession of Old Believers, seats herself on a mound near the Khovansky palace, and sings reminiscently of the days when young Andrew’s heart was hers. She refers once more to the mysterious fate awaiting him.

Susan now discloses herself. She is scandalized by the passionate references to Andrew she has overheard, and reviles Martha for her shamelessness. Dositheus enters and brings peace once more on the scene. He rebukes the old fanatic for her harshness, and comforts Martha. Night falls, and Shaklovity arrives and puts up a prayer for his harassed country.

There follows a sudden rush of Streltsy, followed by their plainly discontented wives. During the turmoil the letter-writer enters breathless, bringing news of the defeat of a Streltsian force at the hands of Peter’s men. A call is made for their leader, and Prince Khovansky counsels them from the steps of his palace to submit for the nonce to Peter’s rule.

The fourth act has two scenes. The first shows the interior of Khovansky’s country mansion. The old Prince is seeking distraction in the songs of his attendant maidens. A messenger from Galitsin, conveying news of a plot against Khovansky’s life, is scornfully dismissed, and the master of the house calls for his Persian dancers. At the conclusion of the entertainment Shaklovity brings a command that Khovansky shall appear at the Regent’s council. Imagining this to be a sign of returning favour, the Prince makes ready for the journey, but as he approaches the door he is stabbed. His terrified servants flee from the sight of their prostrate master, and Shaklovity, surveying the corpse, breaks out into derisive laughter.

Scene II represents a public square in Moscow. Through the crowd is seen the figure of Galitsin, who is being hurried under close escort into exile. Dositheus joins the throng, and hears from Martha that Peter has ordered the wholesale execution of the Old Believers. Their leader resolves that death shall be self-inflicted. Andrew Khovansky, ignorant of his father’s assassination and of the general turn of events, now appears on the scene, and entreats Martha to deliver up the young Lutheran. He is told that Emma is honourably united to the man she loves, and in his consternation Andrew threatens Martha with death at the hands of his Streltsy. She bids him proceed with his threat. His repeated horn-blasts are answered in unexpected fashion by a body of his men, who, guarded by Peter’s soldiers, are bringing axes and faggots to the place chosen for their execution. It does not take place. Peter’s merciful decree of pardon is delivered to them by a herald.

The Old Believers’ hermitage in a wood near Moscow is the scene of the fifth and final act. There, under the leadership of Dositheus, preparations are being made for a self-administered martyrdom. Andrew, still hoping to find Emma, is prevailed upon by Martha to mount the pyre, to which she then applies the brand. The Old Believers sing their hymn until the flames overpower them. The trumpets of Peter’s soldiery are heard, and the curtain falls to the music which symbolizes the rising of the new Russia from the ashes of the old.

XV.

As drama, “Khovanshchina” is better planned than “Boris Godounof,” despite the summary curtailment to which Moussorgsky was obliged to subject the work. On the dramatic side it possesses perhaps in a greater degree the quality of nationalism; the consequences of the Nikonian revision have a greater significance for the larger public than the misdemeanours of Boris and Otrepief. In the matter of construction, the difference between the two works is principally in respect of detail. Moussorgsky has abandoned, in “Khovanshchina,” his rigid adherence to the method of “throughout-composition”; there are repetitions which reveal an intention of seeking a compromise between an allegiance to the principles of his School and the desire to use a beautiful melody more than once. “Khovanshchina” is, in a word, slightly more “operatic” than “Boris Godounof.”

The principal characters are again represented by themes, and here one observes that in their repetition there is just a shade more deliberateness. The motive most frequently used is that of the massive figure of Khovansky, than which it would have been impossible to conceive anything more appropriate.

A remarkable feature of the score is the wealth of music of an ecclesiastical kind. Already in “Boris” Moussorgsky had shown a complete mastery of the ancient modal method of writing. In “Khovanshchina” he achieves some of his most successful pages when composing chants for the Old Believer chorus.

A cardinal point of difference between the music of “Boris Godounof” and that of the later work is that, whereas in the former the lyrical pages are, as it were, mostly ornamental, in “Khovanshchina” they are part and parcel of the vocal line. The inclusion in “Boris” of the Clapping Game, the Nurse’s Song of the Gnat, and the Inn-keeper’s Song, is perfectly legitimate, as they are relevant to the dramatic action. But they are decorative; they are part of the folk-colour. In “Khovanshchina” there are a few identifiable specimens of folk-song, such as Martha’s song in Act III, the hymn to Khovansky in the country-house scene, and a fragment sung by the sleepy strelets immediately following the curtain’s first rise; but their folk-origin is not betrayed, as are those of the earlier work, by their text. They are used where original music would have served as well, and the allegory of the folk-text fits into the dramatic situation.

XVI.

There are several numbers of great beauty in “Khovanshchina” which might easily be given a separate performance. First among these should be mentioned the Persian Dances. Among some of the composer’s friends they were looked upon as an unwarrantable interpolation. The assumption that old Prince Khovansky had among his household some Persian captives was too slender an excuse for this music. Hearing it, one is quite prepared to give Moussorgsky the benefit of the doubt. The dances are introduced by a few anticipatory phrases; by this means the composer avoids the break which would have given them more the appearance of a ballet included as a sop to the orthodox opera-goer. The Song of the Haiduk (Hungarian mercenary), sung by Khovansky’s serving-maids immediately before the Persian Dances, is also exceedingly charming; it is obviously traditional. The choral song in honour of Khovansky, in the first act, is highly appropriate music, and could hardly have been improved upon as a means of suggesting the attitude of his followers towards the Prince. In singling out one from the many fine specimens of music of a devotional kind, it is upon the chorus of Old Believers in the last act, written in the Phrygian mode, that the choice must fall. The wonderful Song of Divination ought not to need mention as one of the numbers detachable from the score, since that is often given on the concert-platform.

“Khovanshchina” seems to merit a place apart in the field of Russian Opera. It is a fusion of the Glinkist and Dargomijskian traditions in that it deals with national subjects, incorporates the folk-idea, both literary and musical, and is designed and constructed on lines which are favourable to the development of a rational type of opera; in such an opera the severity of declamation is relieved on suitable occasions by melody, and a compromise is thus reached, admitting of the treatment of any literary subject at all suitable for the purposes of opera.

“Khovanshchina” is a work in which such a compromise becomes imperative. But for its acceptance the store of Russian national music-drama would have been robbed of an example that makes a direct appeal to the religious as well as to the patriotic sensibilities of the Russian nation.

FOOTNOTES:

[8] “Moussorgsky,” Félix Alcan, Paris, 1911.

[9] A Russian musical essayist, wrongly supposing this to have
referred to the whole operatic fragment, has cited these
words as evidence of the composer’s power of detachment.

[10] “Les Faux Démétrius,” Paris, 1853.

[11] “Musique d’autrefois et d’aujourd’hui,” Dorbon-Ainé, Paris.